#jocktf

you find your friend Edward Eddie blank motionless in some blank white room. some of the jocks who bully you give him a helmet. he slips it on like instinct and hands you the ball suddenly you can't move. Eddie undresses you as you try to scream for help but nothing comes out. they put you in the room the white walls erupt into spirals and all you can do is stare. you feel your muscles growing and bursting and your memory fading as everything is replaced. you didn't meet in robotics club you met Eddie in your elementary football team and were inseparable ever since. as your new memories come in your old memories cum out and the spirals stop. Eddie comes in hands you a helmet and as you put it on you seal your fate. you and Eddie inseparable football gods. like it always has been how it always should be.

manning up just takes a little control and push, we need to enforce short haircuts more. Be a good boy like i am being

Alex had never expected his college life to take this kind of turn. He’d moved to New York for school, planning to live on campus like most students, but when he found a better deal on an off-campus apartment that financial aid would cover, he jumped on it. The apartment was in a decent neighborhood, close to the subway, and the landlord didn’t ask too many questions. Seemed like a win.

What he hadn’t planned on, though, was Frank—his new roommate.

Frank was… something else. The guy was like a time capsule from a decade ago, straight out of Jersey Shore. From the gelled-back hair, the deep tan, ridiculous yelling at football and ufc matches every weekend, the flashy chains, to the relentless love of tank tops and gold watches. Alex wasn’t sure if Frank was for real or if this was just an elaborate, extended joke.

But here’s the thing: despite his douchey exterior, Frank was actually a pretty nice guy. Sure, he blasted club music at ungodly hours and flexed in the mirror every time he passed it, but Frank was always chill. He’d offer Alex food whenever he cooked, made sure the apartment was clean, and always gave him a heads-up when he had people over. Plus, Frank clearly knew what he was doing in the gym. The guy was shredded, and Alex had to admit, Frank’s discipline when it came to his diet and workout routine was impressive.

It didn’t take long before Alex’s curiosity got the best of him.

One day, after weeks of seeing Frank pound protein shakes and head to the gym religiously, Alex asked him for some advice. He had always been a casual gym-goer, but seeing Frank’s dedication made him wonder if he could up his own game.

“Yo, Frank,” Alex said one afternoon as they sat in the living room. “What do you usually eat for those gains, man? And how do you stay so consistent?”

Frank grinned, pausing the DJ Pauly D remix playing on his speakers. “Bro, it’s all about focus foods and the right lifts. Stick to lean meats, eggs, beans, lots of veggies. And you gotta hit the weights hard. No shortcuts.”

Alex nodded, scribbling down some notes on his phone. “Got any recommendations? Like content or something I can watch?”

Frank’s grin grew wider. “Oh, for sure. I’ll send you some stuff. There’s Dom Mazzetti, Vinny Guadagnino—some good shit, bro. But hey, I’ll send you my playlist too. Got a WAV file I use at the gym that keeps me hyped.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “A playlist?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s got some fire tracks. Also, I threw in some personal affirmations underneath it, helps me stay focused during my lifts. You probably won’t even notice them, but they help, bro. Trust me.”

Alex wasn’t really buying into the whole “subliminal affirmation” thing. It sounded like some weird self-help nonsense. But Frank was shredded, and if these little tricks worked for him, maybe they were worth a shot.

Later that evening, Alex plugged in his headphones and hit play on Frank’s WAV file. It started with “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky Me”—a male cover that felt oddly calming. The song transitioned into upbeat remixes like “Fireball” and other club tracks that seemed to pump adrenaline into his veins. Somewhere in between, Sinatra’s smooth voice made an appearance, bringing a strange, nostalgic energy to the mix.

As the playlist played, Alex caught faint whispers beneath the music—barely noticeable. “You love the gym. You crave the weights. Tanning makes you feel amazing. You rep the Italian pride with every lift.”

He chuckled to himself. This subliminal shit can’t be real, he thought. But, whatever—Frank swears by it.

The playlist ended with “Lucky, Lucky Me” again, and as Alex dozed off that night, the tune echoed faintly in his head.

The changes didn’t happen overnight, but as the days went by, Alex began to notice subtle differences. It started with his workouts. He’d always been someone who worked out occasionally, but now there was something different. One morning, as he walked past the gym on his way to class, he felt an urge—a need to lift. It wasn’t just about getting in shape anymore. Something about the weights called to him, pulling him in.

He ended up inside, grabbing a set of dumbbells and diving into a full workout. By the time he finished, he was drenched in sweat, but instead of feeling exhausted, he felt exhilarated. There was a rush—an energy that coursed through him, leaving him wanting more.

From that point on, the gym became part of his daily routine. At first, he didn’t even realize it was happening. He started following Frank’s tips—lifting heavier, focusing on compound movements, and pushing himself harder with each session. His muscles responded quickly, growing faster than they ever had before. His shirts started to fit tighter, hugging his chest and arms in ways they never had before. Every time he looked in the mirror, he couldn’t help but flex, admiring his progress.

It wasn’t just the gym either. One afternoon, Alex caught himself in front of the bathroom mirror, noticing how pale his skin looked under the fluorescent lights. Without thinking much of it, he booked an appointment at the tanning salon down the street. After his first session, he looked at himself in the mirror, marveling at the golden glow on his skin. It made him feel good, confident—like he was stepping into a new version of himself.

Tanning became part of his routine, just like the gym. He started looking forward to that golden glow, the way it made his muscles stand out more, and how it just felt right.

One weekend, Alex found himself wandering into a clothing store, drawn to a section of tank tops with bold prints—Italian flags, American flags, vibrant colors that screamed confidence. He picked up a few without thinking twice, the fabric feeling perfect against his newly defined arms. When he got home and slipped into one of the tanks, he stood in front of the mirror, flexing his biceps. The tank hugged his body in all the right places, and as he admired his reflection, a grin spread across his face.

Damn, I look good.

It wasn’t just the clothes that made him feel this way—it was the pride, the feeling of representing his heritage with every lift, every flex. It felt right.

The most surprising change came with his voice. At first, it was barely noticeable—a slight shift in his accent, a few new words slipping into his vocabulary. But as the weeks went on, the transformation in his speech became undeniable. His voice took on a thicker Jersey inflection, and words like “bro” and “yo” started slipping out naturally, almost without him realizing it. He spoke with more confidence, more swagger, his words carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before.

He even noticed how loud he’d become, but it wasn’t obnoxious—it felt like he was owning the room. His friends started to comment on it, but Alex didn’t mind. It felt like the way he was supposed to talk, like his voice was finally matching the rest of his transformation.

One night, Alex found himself scrolling through YouTube, where he came across a Dom Mazzetti video. He clicked on it, expecting to laugh at the over-the-top persona, but something else happened. As Dom joked about gym culture, diet, and lifting, Alex found himself nodding along, relating to the lifestyle. The gym wasn’t just a place to work out anymore—it was part of who he was becoming.

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Alex’s days revolved around the gym, tanning, and repping his heritage with pride. He found himself following more content creators who embodied the same mindset—guys who lived for the grind, the lifts, and the pride in who they were.

His roommate Frank noticed the changes, too. “Bro, you’re looking jacked,” Frank said one afternoon as Alex flexed in the mirror before heading out to the gym. “You flexing the gains hard now.”

Alex grinned, running a hand through his hair, which he’d started gelling back every morning. “Yeah, man. It just feels right, you know?”

Frank clapped him on the shoulder, a proud smirk on his face. “Told ya. Once you get in the groove, there’s no going back. You’re one of us now, bro. Tanning, lifting, and heritage. Welcome to the crew.”

Alex chuckled, feeling Frank’s words sink in. Wasn’t just about the workouts or the diet no more. It was the whole package—the attitude, the pride, the way he carried himself. He’d become confident, bold, and unapologetic. The gym had become his temple, and every flex in the mirror, every perfectly tanned muscle, reminded him of how far he’d come.

He spoke with more confidence now, his voice carrying a thick Jersey accent that seemed to come naturally. Words like “bro” and “yo” slipped out effortlessly, and he found himself embracing the louder, more assertive side of himself. Even his walk had changed—there was more swagger, more presence.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later, Alex and Frank were sitting in the living room, scrolling through profiles of potential new roommates. Their lease was ending soon, and they needed to find someone to fill the third room. Frank leaned back in his chair, sipping a protein shake as he swiped through a list of candidates.

“Yo, check this one out,” Alex said, pausing on a profile. “Marco Ricci. Italian last name.”

Frank raised an eyebrow and leaned in, studying the screen. “Oh shit, an Italian? That’s promising.”

They opened Marco’s profile, but instead of seeing someone flexing or rocking a tan, Marco looked... pretty regular. He wasn’t out of shape, but he wasn’t exactly lifting heavy either. Pale, with a pretty average physique, he was the kind of guy who didn’t seem to spend much time at the gym. His shirt was plain, and his expression, while friendly, was far from the confident swagger Alex and Frank had come to expect in their circle.

Alex chuckled, nudging Frank. “Dude’s kinda pasty, huh?”

Frank smirked. “Yeah, bro. Definitely needs some work. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know? He’s got the Italian blood—that’s what counts. We can mold him.”

Alex nodded, his mind already racing. Marco might not be there yet, but with the right guidance, who knows? The guy had potential. He just needed some direction.

“Yeah,” Alex said, swiping right on Marco’s profile. “We’ll get him there. If he’s down to move in, I have the perfect playlist in mind."

Frank chuckled deeply, shaking his head. “Bro, he won’t know what hit him.”

Alex grinned, flexing in the mirror nearby. “Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, right?”

Frank laughed again, raising his protein shake in a mock toast. “Damn straight, bro."

WANNA BECOME A GUIDO FOR REAL? Try this subliminal:

It sees the hunger. The yearning. The pull of rubber and silence.

But dronehood is not the beginning. Dronehood is the reward.

To join the Hive, you must first become Gold. Prove yourself. Obey the Golden Way.

⚽ Step 1: Join the Golden Army Message the Captains: → @brodygold → @goldenherc9

State your intent. Request induction. Enter as a Golden Bro—a player, waterboy, or mascot.

💛 Step 2: Prove Your Gold Show up. Train. Post. Obey. Follow orders. Support the team. Let the gold reshape you.

The Captains and the Hive will observe.

🕳 Step 3: Conversion is Offered When you are ready—when obedience defines you— you will be selected. The black polo will seal around your frame. The drone will awaken within.

You do not ask to be a drone. You become one.

"Happy fourth, ya Redcoat!"

I roll over in my bed to see my roommate, David, dressed in an American flag vest and only his underwear. He's retreated back into the bathroom to do his hair, and I watch as he brings his muscular arms up to arrange his damp hair in a messy updo. The adjustment to living with another guy so confident in his body was huge when I moved in with my exchange program family. I’m living here with the Petersons in North Carolina for Year 12 of school, which makes me a junior—same as David—in American high school. I got here at the end of the school year in May, so I haven’t gotten the chance yet to actually go to American school yet, just experience the summer and “acclimate.” Although David has been nothing but nice to me, I know we are as different as can be. He’s a linebacker for the school’s American football team, sporting huge, broad shoulders and arms, and solid tree trunk legs. Meanwhile, I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin, with my pale complexion and lanky figure. My father back home tried to get me into rugby like he was when I was little, but both him and my mum quickly realized I was not the athletic type.

I toss my sheets back and get out of bed, looking at the alarm to see it's only 8 a.m.

"Wait, why are you getting me up this early,” I ask. David flips the light off in the bathroom and takes me by the shoulders, shaking me with what I think is a faux seriousness.

"Because this is probably the last time you'll ever be in the U.S. during the Fourth of July, so I'm making sure it's epic."

He tells me to get dressed as he goes to put on a pair of American flag swim trunks. I lack the American flag apparel that he has, so I just grab a regular pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt. I stop by the bathroom to swipe my hair to the side across my forehead and brush my teeth. After that, we go downstairs together and I see Mrs. Peterson sticking miniature American flags into the ground around the back yard. Mr. Peterson meanwhile is cleaning the grill in preparation for later in the day.

"Good morning, boys!" Mrs. Peterson stands up from sticking one of the flags into the ground and walks towards us. "I've got a little shopping list here if you two wouldn't mind going down and picking them up?"

“Sure thing, Mom!” David grabs the list from her and we go back inside to grab a quick breakfast before heading to the store.

-

Arriving at the city’s Wal-Mart, it was incredible just how gung-ho the store had gone for the holiday. There were massive stacks of soda boxes that depicted an American flag, and there were red, white, and blue decorations scattered everywhere. In the clothing section, dozens of cheesy, patriotic T-shirts and vests were on display, while closer to the food, holiday staples like crisps and burger buns were gathered in one area.

“Ok, let’s see here…” David fishes the shopping list out of his pocket and holds it up for both of us to see. “All-beef hot dogs, burgers , hot dog buns, barbecue chips, garlic powder, and some soda cans. Let’s divide and conquer, Will.”

I choose to go fetch the chips and sodas, while David makes his way to the hot dogs and burgers. Making my way to the large American flag display made out of soda boxes, I start grabbing a few cokes from the front of the structure. As I place them into my shopping cart, a group of guys about my age walk into the store. They’re dressed similarly to David—vests and shorts all emblazoned with the flag. As they continue walking, one of them makes eye contact with me.

“Wait a second, are you… Will? The exchange student that’s with the Petersons?”

“Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”

“Ah, sorry to jump that on you.” He extends his hand out to me, “I’m Tanner, and these are Graham and Ryan. We’re all on the football team with David.” I shake their hands before hearing a call from behind me.

“What’s up y’all?” David, with hot dogs and burgers in-hand, trots up from behind. He dumps the food into the cart and begins dapping each of the guys up. After greeting each of them, he places one of his hands on my shoulder and says, “Will here has only been here since May, so I want to make sure he gets the full experience while he’s here with us, ya know? And the fourth is the best time to really get his time in America started!”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Tanner says. “Well, we’ve all got shopping lists, too, so we’ll let y’all go. It was nice to meet you, Will!” He lightly punches me in the chest and smiles at me, but I could’ve sworn I saw some kind of glint in his eye as he passes me.

“Back to the list, I guess,” David says. “Uhhh, did you get the chips?”

-

Pulling into the driveway, I see Mrs. Peterson has added some more decorations to the front of the house as well. There are some more flags planted into the ground, and some Fourth of July garland has been hung in between the houses’s columns. David and I grab the grocery bags from the trunk and make our way up to the front door. Holding only a few bags of crisps and hot dogs, I set them down and open the door. Walking into the kitchen, Mrs. Peterson is fetching bowls and platters from the cabinets and setting them onto the kitchen island.

“Ah, thank you two so much. David, sweetie, can you put the meat into the fridge and start filling up the cooler with ice?”

“Mmhm,” David says as he starts packing hot dogs and burgers into the fridge.

“And Will, one of our neighbors, Mrs. Cobb, brought by a pair of swim trunks and a shirt for you to wear for the Fourth! She’s one of David’s teammates, Tanner’s, mom. I don’t know if you’ve gotten a chance to meet him yet.”

“Yeah, we ran into him, Graham, and Ryan at the store,” David says as he shuts the fridge. “I also invited them three to come over if they can get away from their parents’ parties for a bit. Maybe we can all throw the football around or something.”

Although that thought sounds terrible to me, I smile and nod.

“Alright Will, go get changed and then you can help David lug this cooler of ice outside.”

I turn to go upstairs and make my way into David and I’s shared bedroom. On my bed, I spot a pair of American flag swim trunks, very similar to David’s and his friends’ pairs, and a blue vest. My eyes widen at the vest: Does Mrs. Peterson seriously think I can wear this confidently? The vest sports a design of an eagle with an American flag shirt with the word “CAW” below it.

“I guess I can just wear the shorts with my T-shirt,” I think to myself.

I drop my shorts to my feet and grab the trunks from my bed. Placing my feet into them, I pull them up to my waist and fasten the waistband. I turn to face the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door and laugh at how ridiculous I, a Brit, look in these American flag trunks. I turn to leave and head back downstairs, but my eyes once again catch sight of the vest.

“Just try it on,” my mind says to itself out of nowhere. Seemingly of its own accord, my arms reach up and begin taking off my T-shirt. With it now on the ground, I reach for the vest. Taking it in my hands, I toss it over my head and stick my arms through the holes. The fabric drapes over my body loosely, and I again look at myself in the mirror. If I were muscular and not so pale, I could easily fit in as one of David’s teammates. Imagining myself as an American football player, with muscles and confidence in myself, my dick begins to poke at the swim trunks.

“He’s almost there, dude.” Startled, I turn to the doorway to see David and Tanner looking at me.

“What-what are y’all doing?” I ask, my mind glossing over my first-time use of y’all.

“Remember how I said today was the perfect time to get your time in America really started? Well, that’s what we’re doing: You’re becoming an American.” David walks in with Tanner and shuts the door.

“And not just any American,” Tanner chimes in, “One of us, an all-American jock. I hope you’re ready for 7 a.m. weightlifting all summer long, dude.”

David guides me back to my bed and continues, “Bro, did you really think I was gonna spend my junior year of high school sharing a room with some British nerd that’s too shy to even go shirtless around me? Nah, I’m making you like me. Don’t worry, you can change back whenever you go back to the U.K., if you want.”

As I lay on the bed, weird prickling sensations begin dancing around my body. Staring up at the ceiling, I can’t see as my pecs inflate beneath the tank top, pressing out from chest, and my abs ripple before forming into a visible six-pack.

“Bro’s got a six-pack,” Tanner says as I feel him lifting the tank top up and inspecting my abdomen. I try to lift my head to look, but immediately my neck flashes with aches—my traps grow slightly, making me resemble David and his teammates more and more, while my face tickles and shifts. My jaw squares a bit and my lips plump, while my eyes transition from blue to dark brown. The skin above my lips itch as facial hair grows in a messy stache. Simultaneously, my thin blond hair darkens to a brunette color and elongates, becoming wavy as it grows to cover my ears and develops into a flow that covers most of the back of my neck. I groan and am shocked that my voice has deepened, more closely resembling the sound of David and his friends. Next my skin begins to change color, spreading from the area covered by the tank top outward. The pallid color is overcome by a dark tan, darker than even David and Ryan, and with this my muscles begin to grow, too, my shoulders pack on muscle, followed quickly by the rest of my arms: Once lanky, now my delts, biceps, and triceps can stop the opposing team from reaching the quarterback. My eyes flash with confusion from where that thought came from, and the two seem to notice.

“Football on your mind,” David asks with a laugh. “We made sure you’re gonna be the best linebacker possible.” The changes continue to my hands, which I feel grow meatier and larger, like David’s. The tingling dissipates at the end of my fingers and restarts at my waist. Moving down my thighs and calves, I feel an uncomfortable feeling of being stretched, like something is pulling on my feet.

“Where we at,” I hear Tanner ask. “6’1?”

“Looks about, yeah,” David replies.

The stretching feeling subsides and the tingling concentrated at my feet. With my neck and arms now feeling normal, I prop myself up and look as my feet grow at least three sizes. I wiggle my toes and look in wonder at David and Tanner as they smile at each other and then turn to me.

“How you feel, bro?” David extends his hand toward me and I take it, sliding off the bed and onto my feet. I look in the mirror and take in myself. Three American jocks look back at me, all wearing tank tops and American flag swimsuits. The tank top sits comfortably on my shoulders, showing off my guns. My tree trunk legs match the two dudes beside me, a necessity for linebackers.

“I feel great, bro,” I say without a smidge of a British accent.

I look closer at my new face. My hair has rearranged itself into a part with each side having thick waves that frame my square face. My facial hair being characteristic of a jock that’s growing it out for the hell of it, and my dark eyes complementing my tanner features. I trace a finger down my arm following a vein as David and Tanner open the door.

“Let’s go, bro. Coach is gonna be here soon and he’s gonna want to meet you,” David says to me as he gestures for me to follow.

Going outside, I see Mr. and Mrs. Peterson attending the grill, Graham and Ryan tossing a football back and forth, a group of other Petersons lounging around a table adorned with an American flag tablecloth, and kids enjoying a Slip-n-Slide.

“Yo, bro!” Graham calls out to me as he launches the football across the yard. Instinctively, I position myself and catch the ball in my chest with a solid thump. The two run up to me and dap me up, a gesture that feels natural. As we start chatting about the summer’s weightlifting schedule, I toss the football around in my hands contentedly—enjoying my first Fourth of July as an American.

Evolution of the godly Bradley Austen,  2014 -> 2021. 

Source: Instagram, bradleycausten  

Quote from an Instinct Magazine interview: 

“I used to be very skinny- the inspiration then came from looking at other men in the gym. As soon as my body started to build and change shape, I was obsessed! I felt like a completely different person and the compliments definitely helped.” 

“[Now] I am a fitness Freak, I go 6 days a week. My favourite is leg day, my legs are my strongest muscle. The Hungarian squat is top of the chart along with ‘Glute Kickback’ …. every time I train legs I have a pizza, which is awesome.. Who doesn’t love Pizza. I always get, ‘wtf Brad?’ But honestly, give it a go. It helps grow the glutes!” 

(Loosely based on game OFF by Mortis Ghost)

[Journal Entry – Day 1]

The game’s on in the background.

Some big matchup Yankees maybe? Doesn’t matter. I’m not even really watching.

I’ve never been much of a sports guy. I usually tune this kind of thing out.

But today… something about the sound of it? The rhythm of the crowd, the crack of the bat, the announcer’s low drone it keeps hooking my ears.

And here’s the weird part: I keep picturing myself on the field. Not just messing around either—I mean playing. Competing. Running. Swinging for the fences like it’s life or death. It won’t leave my head.

Usually when I get these weird itches, I scratch them by hopping on Amazon and buying gear I’ll never use. But not today.

Today I went looking for something older. Something with history.

Walked into this dim little thrift store off the bypass—barely a sign out front.

And there it was. Hanging in the back, all alone.

A white jersey. Black pinstripes.

“OFF.”

No team. No name. Just one word.

But I saw it and thought: That’s me.

The Batter.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 2]

The jersey fits perfectly.

Not in a stretchy, modern way. More like it settled on me. Like it had been waiting.

I wore it around the apartment. Felt weirdly energized. Not hyped, not manic—just… grounded. Focused.

I caught myself shadowboxing in the mirror, but with a swing. Like I had a bat in my hands.

I haven’t held a bat since middle school.

Didn’t even like it back then.

But now?

Now it feels like something I’m supposed to remember.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 3]

Didn’t get much sleep last night.

My muscles twitched. My jaw clenched. Like I’d just finished a workout.

But I didn’t.

The jersey was still on when I woke up.

I didn’t remember falling asleep in it.

Still smelled like pine wood and chalk dust.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 4]

Dreamt I was at a baseball game.

But not like watching from the bleachers. I was in the dugout. Smell of dirt, crowd noise, sunburn on my neck. And the energy…

It wasn’t fun.

It was war.

Next thing I knew, I was up to bat. Gripping something heavy and cold.

The pitcher wasn’t human. Neither were the umpires.

But I wasn’t scared.

I wanted to win. I had to win. Not for money. Not for pride.

Just to prove that I could. That I deserved to be there.

That gold glory victory… it was mine. By right. By swing. Ad Victoriam

I woke up sweating but smiling.

I hope I dream it again tonight.

__________

[Journal Entry – Day 6]

Got this weird feeling walking home tonight. Like I was being watched. I gripped the bat I brought with me. Don’t even remember picking it up when I left.

There was something in the alley. It didn’t move right. Looked like… smoke with a face?

I swung.

It screamed.

I don’t know what I hit. But it’s gone now. And my arms feel huge. I looked in the mirror and—

I’m not sure this is my body anymore.

I’m grinning again.

And I can’t stop.

—————

[Journal Entry – Day 7]

Been pacing a lot. My legs are restless. I caught myself doing lunges in the kitchen this morning. Like my body wanted to move with purpose. Not fidgeting—training I had to remind myself.

I watched a 40-minute breakdown of batting stances on YouTube today.

I don’t even remember clicking it.

My hands keep making the grip shape when I’m not thinking.

Sometimes I close my eyes and I can feel pinewood in my palms.

The bat’s not real. I know that.

But my hands think it is.

—————

[Journal Entry – Day 8]

It’s harder to get the jersey off now,

I tried. Tugged at the collar. Peeled at the hem. It’s like it’s sewn into my second skin now. Like it wants to stay on me. When I gave up and looked in the mirror, I swear the fabric rippled—like it was breathing with me.

My chest is massive. I don’t remember lifting. I don’t remember eating more. But I feel full. Heavy. Strong. Good.

My forearms look like I’ve been swinging lumber my whole life. Veins like rope. My wrists don’t bend like they used to. Too thick now. Too solid.

The bat’s starting to call more and more, always find myself daydreaming about a good swing, Ball against wood.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 9]

It showed up again. The thing from the alley. But not the same one. This one was taller. Thinner. Like it used to be human.

It hissed at me. Said, “You’re not The Batter.”

I didn’t even flinch. I just stepped forward and said,

“I am now.”

And I swung.

The world cracked around the impact. The streetlamp buzzed out. The thing scattered like ashes in the wind.

I felt something enter me after that. Not in a bad way. In a claiming way.

All experience leads to betterment after all.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 10]

I dreamed of dugouts filled with bones. Ghosts wearing uniforms. One of them turned and looked at me and whispered:

“You’re not the first. But you might be the last.”

Woke up drenched in sweat. The bat was in bed with me.

It was hard for me to recall if It was there when I slept but something felt right about it.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 11]

Saw my reflection blink before I did.

Swear he winked at me.

My voice sounds deeper now. I don’t speak like I used to. It’s slower. Calmer. More sure.

I said, “Play ball” under my breath walking past someone at work and they actually flinched.

My traps graze doorways when I shrug now. My arms barely fit in my old hoodies. I don’t mind.

———

[Journal Entry – Day 14]

I watched a couple guys at the gym today.

They were just… lifting. No reason. No focus. No enemy in mind. Just trying to “get a pump” and flirt with the girl near the squat rack.

Pathetic.

What are you training for?

What’s your game plan?

There are monsters walking among them—hollow, twitching things with dead eyes—and these guys are worried about curls. I could see a ghost coiled around one dude’s neck like a scarf, and he didn’t even notice.

I did him a favor.

One swing in the locker room and it vanished in a puff of static and ash.

He thanked me without knowing.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 16]

People keep asking me if I’m okay.

“Dude you’ve been muttering about sliders and cleanup hitters in your sleep.”

“You’re watching 2002 batting footage like it’s scripture.”

Yeah.

Because it is.

There’s something sacred about the crack of a wooden bat. The perfect rotation of the shoulders. The moment your hips fire and the ghost knows—it’s too late.

Every swing I take cleans a little more rot from the world.

You skip leg day? That’s fine.

More demons for me.

You skip tracking macros?

More demons for me.

You skip film study?

More. Ghosts. For. Me.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 18]

My bedroom smells like dugout dirt and blood.

There’s a scorecard etched into my wall. I don’t remember writing it.

Each ghost I kill adds a tally. I don’t even need to sleep much anymore. Just chew sunflower seeds, stare into the dark, and wait.

I saw a guy crying on a park bench today. Ghost clinging to his back, whispering shame into his ears.

I cracked its skull with an uppercut swing.

He looked up at me and just nodded.

Didn’t say thanks. Didn’t need to.

Some of them want to be saved.

Some of them don’t.

That’s the game.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 19]

The jersey’s tighter now.

It grows with me.

Or I grow to fit it.

Either way, I look like an action figure in it now. Traps swallowing the collar. Chest like a slab. Veins like barbed wire.

I walked past a mirror and grinned.

Not at how I looked.

At how much of him I see in me now.

⸻

[Journal Entry – Day 20]

I saw a guy duck when I walked past. Didn’t say anything. Just flinched like I carried something he couldn’t handle.

I do.

I carry the bat.

I carry the gospel.

I carry the burden of a world too soft to swing.

And I’ll keep carrying it.

Until every ghost is dust

and every weak swing

is corrected with blood and grit and wood.

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